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LIBRARY  F  AC. 

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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A    BEAUTIFUL 


POETIC      REVIEW 


FRIENDLY    OFFERING 

BY 

J.  R.  BRADWAY,  M.  D., 

ORATOR    OF    OAKLAND    COUNCIL,    NO.    ig2 

AMKRICAN    LKCION    OF    HONOR. 


ISSUED    BY 
DEWKY  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Sax  Frakxisco,  Cal. 
1885. 

IciiI'VlttdllT.  I 


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Publishers*    Note. 


The  following  graceful  review,  which  the  authoi-  has  modestly  alluded  to 
as  "poetical  ramblings,"  was  prepared  and  read  in  parts,  at  different  times,  by 
Dr.  Bradway,  for  entertaining  the  fraternal  council  meetings  in  the  line  of 
his  official  duties  therein.  His  hearers  were  so  delighted  as  to  unanimously 
request  the  publication  of  the  papers  that  had,  from  evening  to  evening,  fully 
captivated  their  appreciation. 

The  publisher,  being  one  of  the  favored  listeners,  volunteered  to  issue  the 
series  in  fitting  style,  in  the  faith  that  the  little  work  would  meet  with  decided 
favor  as  a  pleasing  literary  keepsake — a  convenient  "  catch  up,"  as  it  were, 
for  easy  reading  in  spare  moments,  likely  to  be  rarcdy  and  popularly  relished. 


I. 

Poetry  is  the  language  of  Nature.  It  is  written  in  unmistakable  charac- 
ters all  over  the  broad  pages  of  her  great  book,  and  may  be  read  and  under- 
stood by  all  who  have  eyes  to  see,  ears  to  hear,  and  minds  to  appreciate  the 
sublime,  the  melodious  and  the  beautiful.  Natural  poetry  in  its  broadest 
sense  includes  motion,  sound,  color  and  form.  The  graceful  wavino-  of  willow 
boughs  in  the  gentle  wind,  the  gambols  of  the  young  of  animals  as  they  skip 
and  play  in  the  very  joy  of  young  existence,  the  graceful  movements  of  many 
birds  in  their  easy  flight  through  the  ocean  of  air,  and  the  fleecy  summer 
cloud  as  it  floats  like  a  pure  spirit  over  mountain  and  moor  impelled  })y  the 
summer  breeze,  are  all  familiar  examples  of  nature's  poetry  of  motion.  The 
song  of  bird.s,  the  hum  of  insects,  the  babbling  of  brooks  as  they  wind  their 
way  over  pebbly  bottoms,  or  "  slip  down  among  moss-grown  stones  with  end- 
less lauofhter  ; "  the  murmur  of  woodland  streams,  the  sighing  of  the  sununer 
zephyr  through  forest  and  grove  ;  the  roar  of  the  cataract  and  the  wild  chorus 
of  the  storm,  are  examples  of  the  poetry  of  sound  in  the  great  auditorium  of 
Nature.  The  flowers  that  deck  the  hillside  and  beautify  the  valley,  that  are 
spread  abroad  everywhere  in  such  wild  profusion  over  the  broad  lap  of  mother 
earth,  are  familiar  examples  of  nature's  poetry  of  form  and  color.     In  trutli 

"The  world  is  full  of  poetry — the  air 

Is  living  with  its  spirits;  and  the  waves 

Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 

And  sparkle  in  its  brightness.     Earth  is  veiled 


A    BEAUTIFUL 

And  mantled  with  its  beauty;  and  the  walls 
That  close  the  universe  with  crystal  in, 
Are  eloquent  with  voices  that  proclaim 
The  unseen  glories  of  immensity 
In  harmonies  too  perfect  and  too  high 
For  aught  but  things  of  celestial  mould; 
And  speak  to  man  in  one  eternal  hymn 
Unfading  beauty  and  unyielding  power. 
Poetry  is  itself  a  thing  of  God; 
He  made  his  prophets  poets,  and  the  more 
We  feel  of  poesy  do  we  become 
Like  God  in  love  and  power." 


II. 


It  has  been  truly  said,  that  whatever  excites  the  imagination,  pleases  the 
fancy,  elevates,  purifies,  refines  and  ennobles  our  being,  whether  in  the  world  of 
mind  or  matter,  has  in  it  the  elements  of,  and  comes  legitimately  in  the  do- 
minion of  poetry.  Three  essential  poetical  sentiments  exist  in  man:  The  love 
of  God,  the  love  of  woman  and  the  love  of  country;  the  religious,  the  human 
and  the  political  sentiment.  For  this  reason  wherever  the  knowledge  of  God 
is  darkened,  wherever  the  face  of  woman  is  veiled,  wherever  the  people  are  led 
captive  or  enslaved,  there  poetry  is  like  a  flame  which  for  want  of  fuel  ex- 
hausts and  dies  out.  On  the  contrary,  wherever  God  reigns  upon  his  throne  in 
all  the  majesty  of  his  glory,  wherever  woman  rules  by  the  irresistible  power  of 
her  purity,  her  virtue  and  her  enchantments,  wherever  the  people  are  free, 
there  poetry  has  modest  roses  for  the  woman,  glorious  palms  for  the  people, 
and  splendid  wings  with  which  to  mount  up  to  the  loftiest  regions  of  heaven. 
Baseness,  impurity,  wrong  and  injustice  give  no  inspiration,  produce  no  poets 
and  no  poetry.  It  has  been  well  said,  that  "  Poets  are  born,  not  made." 
Dame  Nature  has  never  granted  a  franchise  for  the  manufacture  of  poets;  has 


POETIC  KEl'IEW.  ,- 

never  imparted  the  graud  secret  of  her  power  to  any  human  institution. 
Education  never  produced  a  poet.  It  may,  and  does,  add  some  bright  feathers 
to  his  plumage,  steadiness  and  strength  to  his  flight  of  imaginaticm,  polish  and 
fullness  to  his  expression;  but  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  thought,  the  origi- 
nal power  and  vividness  of  imagination,  the  readiness  of  comparison,  and  all 
that  constitutes  the  very  soul  must  spring  from  that  superior  and  peculiar 
cast  of  mind  generally  denominated  genius. 

Education,  however  well  directed  and  skillful,  could  no  more  produce  a 
poet  from  a  common  mind  than  Canova  or  Praxiteles  could  carve  a  Greek 
slave  or  a  Venus  de  Medici  from  a  block  of  pumice-stone.  As  well  might  the 
clumsy  and  unwieldy  dodo  attempt  the  flight  of  the  strong  swift-winged 
eagle  as  for  the  common  mind  to  attempt  the  flight  of  genius  in  the  sublime 
regions  of  poesy.  An  able  teacher  whose  excellent  instructions  I  once  had  the 
good  fortune  to  enjoy,  a  profound  mathematician,  an  accurate  scientist,  and  a 
man  of  most  excellent  practical  sense,  was  in  the  habit  of  lecturing  his  class 
about  once  a  quarter  on  writing  poetry.  He  was  generally  incited  to  this  by 
discovering  among  the  class  that  tendency,  very  common  among  young  men 
of  a  certain  age,  to  court  the  Muses,  mount  Pegasus  and  attempt  to  ascend 
the  rugged  heights  of  Helicon  from  whose  classic  summit  springs  the  gushing 
fountains  of  poesy. 

He  was  accustomed  to  say,  "  There  are  two  things,  young  gentlemen,  I 
would  advise  you  never  to  attempt  unless  nature  has  endowed  you  with  a  special 
gift,  viz.,  wit  and  poetry;  for  of- all  failures  a  failure  in  an  attempt  at  wit  is 
humiliatmg  enough,  ])ut  at  poetry  is  still  more  so.  ])o  not  attempt  poetry 
unless  you  can  think  poetry,  dream  poetry  and  talk  poetry;  unless  it  comes 
to  you  as  it  were  by  inspiration."  He  once  related  an  anecdote  illustrative  of 
the  ludicrous  absurdity  of  an  attempt  at  poetry  where  there  is  no  natural  gift. 


6  A    BEAUTIFUL 

A  school-mate  of  his  in  his  college  days  had  become  infatuated  with  the  idea 
that  he  could  write  poetry.  And  being  an  aspiring  young  man  he  could  not 
be  satisfied  with  anything  of  the  common  order;  it  must  reach  the  sublime. 
So  with  pen  and  paper  duly  arrayed,  and  after  much  abstract  thought,  he 
commenced  thus: 

"The  sun  from  his  perpendicular  height 
Shines  into  the  depths  of  the  sea — " 

And  here  his  muse  halted  and  folded  her  wings.  This,  though,  was  so  far 
quite  satisfactory.  It  was  sublime,  it  reached  the  sun ;  it  was  deep,  it  went 
down  into  the  sea — but  it  was  incomplete,  it  must  be  finished.  So  after  a 
long  and  fruitless  effort,  feeling  that  his  muse  had  deserted  him,  and  that  he 
could  produce  nothing  that  would  properly  complete  the  stanza,  he  walked 
forth  into  the  fields  and  groves  to  court  inspiration,  hoping  by  his  return  that 
his  muse  might  have  so  plumed  her  pinions  as  to  be  ready  to  continue  her 
flight.  During  his  absence  his  room-mate  came  in,  and  seeing  the  unfinished 
production,  and  knowing  his  friend's  penchant  for  writing  poetry,  took  up  the 
pen  and  completed  the  stanza,  when  it  read  thus : 

"The  sun  from  his  perpendicular  height 
Shines  into  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
And  the  fishes  begin  to  sweat 
And  cr)',  why  d it,  how  hot  we  be  I" 

This  finished  the  young  man's  eflforts  at  poetry. 

III. 

Plodding  and  toilsome, eflfort  alone  never  produce  true  poetry.     It   must 
rise  as  spontaneously  from  the  mind  as  perfume  from  the  flower,    or   warmth 


POETIC  REVIEW.  ; 

and  li^ht  from  the  sunbeam.  The  Muses  are  not  of  the  laborino-  class,  and 
Pegasus,  their  steed,  was  endowed  by  the  gods  witli  winged  feet  that  he 
might  soar  to  the  lofty  heights  of  Helicon  and  not  toil  up  through  the  dust  of 
earth. 

I  think  it  may  be  asserted  without  the  fear  of  successful  contradiction, 
that  no  one  ever  rose  to  distinction  as  a  poet  who  did  not  in  early  life  give 
unmistakable  evidence  of  possessing  the  divine  gift.  Milton  distinguished 
himself  as  a  poet  before  he  was  16,  and  while  yet  in  his  teens  stood  at  the 
head  of  English  scholars  as  a  writer  of  Latin  verses.  Pope  wrote  his  "  Pas- 
torals" at  the  age  of  16.  Burns,  though  the  son  of  a  gardener  and  without 
the  advantages  of  a  liberal  education,  early  acquired  a  reputation  as  a  j)oet. 

Byron  wrote  his  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers"  before  his  major- 
ity, in  answer  to  some  criticisms  by  the  Edinburgh  Renar  on  a  collection  of 
poems  which  he  had  previously  written,  and  his  "Childe  Harolde"  was  pub- 
lished before  he  Avas  25.  Campbell  wrote  early,  and  produced  his  "Pleasures 
of  Hope,"  an  admirable  poem,  which  gave  him  instant  fame  as  a  poet,  before 
he  was  22. 

Bryant,  our  own  beloved  and  revered  bard,  who  has  written  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  effusions  ever  written  in  the  English  language,  commenced 
"writing  at  12,  and  produced  his  "Thanatopsis,"  a  poem  that  has  been  read 
and  admired  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken,  before  he  A\'as  1!). 

Lucretia  Maria  Davidson,  the  child  of  song,  the  sweet  poetical  bud  of 
promise,  who  drooped  and  died  "like  the  early  tiower  nipped  by  the  unfei'ling 
frost,  just  as  it  rose  lovely  in  youth  and  put  its  beauties  on,"  conqiosed  beauti- 
fully at  four  years  of  age :  aijd  though   she  died  at   17.  had   i^oduecd  many 


S  A    BEAUTIFUL 

effusions  remarkable  for  sweetness  and  beauty,  showing  also  sublimity  of 
thought.     A  quotation  from  one  of  which  I  cannot  refrain  from  giving  here: 

"Why  these  restless  vain  desires 
That  constant  strive  for  something  more 
To  feed  the  spirit's  hidden  fires 
That  burn  unseen,  unnoticed  soar? 
Well  might  the  heathen  sage  have  known 
That  earth  must  fail  the  soul  to  bind, 
That  life  and  life's  tame  joys  alone 
Can  never  chain  the  ethereal  mind." 

It  must  be  conceded  that  this  is  replete  with  the  true  spirit  of  poesy,  and 
could  not  have  been  produced  by  one  so  young,  save  by  inspiration  of  true 
genius.  The  sister,  Margaret,  who  died  somewhat  younger,  was  equally 
gifted.  The  immortal  spirit  panting  for  its  heavenly  home  could  not  be  im- 
prisoned by  the  frail  earthly  tenement  by  which  it  was  en.shrouded.  Many 
more  examples  might  be  given,  but  what  has  been  produced  is,  I  think,  sufti- 
cent  to  establish  beyond  a  doubt  that  true  poetry  is  of  divine  and  not  of 
earthly  origin. 

IV. 

Having  spoken  of  poetry  in  a  broad  and  general  sense,  and  referred 
briefly  to  some  of  the  essential  characteristics  of  poetry  and  poets,  I  now  pro- 
pose to  speak  more  definitely  of  the  poetry  of  language  or  written  poetry.  In 
doing  which  I  shall  call  attention  to  three  varieties  of  composition,  viz.,  prose, 
blank  verse  and  rhyme — the  last  of  which  is  generally  considered  the  style  of 
composition  especially  entitled  to  the  name  of  poetry. 

As  I  have  before  stated,  beauty,  truth,  sublimity,  ideality  and  compari- 
son constitute  the  essential  elements  and  soul  of  poetry.     Rhyme   and   meter 


POETIC  REVIEW.  9 

are  only  characteristics  in  the  garb  which  poetry  generally  wears,  and  with- 
out some  of  the  essential  elements  which  I  have  mentioned,  no  more  con- 
stitute true  poetry  than  form  and  clothing  would  constitute  a  true  man.  An 
effigy  may  have  the  form  and  garb  of  manhood  and  dissemble  well  the  gen- 
eral appearance,  but  lacking  vitality  and  soul  is  only  a  despicable,  hollow 
sham.  So  composition  may  have  the  form  and  semblance  of  poetry,  but 
without  the  essential  elements  which  constitute  soul  it  is  mere  jingle — an 
empty  sham.  I  propose  first  to  call  attention  briefly  to  what  may  be  proper- 
ly termed  the  poetry  of  prose.  As  we  sometimes  find  the  highest  type  of 
noble  manhood  clothed  in  the  coarsest,  simplest  garb,  so  we  often  find  the 
very  essence  and  soul  of  poetry  clothed  in  the  humble,  plain  garb  of  prose,  a 
few  examples  of  which,  by  way  of  illusti-ation,  I  now  propose  to  give: 

The  notorious  Scotchman,  Rob  Roy,  having  incurred  the  displeasure  of 
the  constituted  authorities  by  some  grave  offense  against  the  law — which  Avas 
greatly  magnified  by  his  enemies — was  urged  by  his  personal  friends,  who 
were  fearful  he  might  come  to  grief,  to  leave  the  country;  but  to  all  their  en- 
treaties he  replied  emphatically,  No.  Said  he,  "Should  I  do  so,  the  very  stones 
would  cry  out  against  me.  The  heather  upon  which  I  have  trod  while  living 
shall  bloom  over  my  grave  wlicn  I  am  dead."  Unflinching  patriotism  and 
love  of  home  and  an  unshaken  determination  to  sleej)  beneath  the  flowers 
whose  beauty  and  fragrance  had  charmed  him  while  living  could  hardly  ha\'e 
been  expressed  in  language  more  truly  poetical. 


The    Highlanders    of    Scotland    are    deeply  imi'ued    with  sentiments  of 
poetry  and  romance.     The  rugged  mountains,  tin;  romantic  glens  and  bcauti- 


/o  A   BEAUTIFUL 

ful  lakes  set  like  mirrors  amid  their  mountain  fastnesses,  and  the  general 
wildness  of  the  scenery,  give  a  charm  to  their  bold,  free  life  well  calculated 
to  inspue  sentiments  of  patriotism,  poetry  and  romance.  In  like  manner 
with  the  North  American  Indian.  There  is  something  in  the  solitary  gran- 
deur of  the  forest  and  the  almost  boundless  expanse  of  the  plains  where  he  is 
accustomed  to  roam — in  his  intimate  communion  with  nature  in  all  the  wild 
grandeur  and  boundless  beauty  of  her  primitive  state,  well  calculated  to  till 
the  mind — all  uncultured  though  it  may  be — with  sentiments  of  poetry  and 
romance.  Hence,  we  often  find  among  specimens  of  Indian  oratory  examples 
of  lofty  and  sublime  poetry.  Red  Jacket,  the  once  famous  chief  of  the 
Senecas,  and  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  Indian  orators,  when  passing 
through  the  State  of  New  York — once  the  home  and  now  the  resting-place 
of  his  fathers — when  very  old  was  repeatedly  urged  to  give  a  specimen  of  his 
oratorical  powers;  but  feeling  that  age  and  the  fire-water  of  the  white  man 
had  greatly  dimmed  the  brightness  of  those  intellectual  fires  that  once  burned 
with  such  brilUancy,  could  not  be  prevailed  on  to  attempt  a  speech.  For  this 
unwillingness  he  on  one  occasion  offered  the  following  remarkable  apology: 
Rising  in  his  place  with  something  like  the  native  grandeur  and  .dignity  of 
former  years  (for  he  still  retained  much  of  physical  vigor),  he  said,  "I  am  an 
aged  hemlock.  The  winds  of  nearly  a  hundred  winters  have  blown  through 
my  branches,  and  I  am  dead  at  the  top."  What  language  could  express  more 
poetically  that  period  in  man's  life  when  the  fire  of  genius  burns  low,  when 
the  brilliant  intellect  has  fallen  into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  while  the  physi- 
cal powers  are  yet  comparatively  vigorous  ?  Any  one  acquainted  with  the 
forests  of  our  middle  and  northern  States,  wlio  has  seen  the  sturdy  hemlock 
with  its  dry  and  leafless  crown,  while  all  below  was  green  and  vigorous,  will 
readily  perceive  the  striking  beauty  and  truthfulness  of  the    illustration  used. 


POETIC  REVIEW.  u 

VI. 

But  no  man,  perhaps,  who  has  written  in  the  English  language,  has  in- 
terwoven more  of  the  beauty  and  true  sentiment  of  poetry  in  his  prose  writ- 
ings than  our  own  much-loved  and  respected  countryman,  Washington  Irving. 
There  is  about  his  writings  a  clearness  of  style,  a  beauty  and  simplicity  of 
language,  a  purity  of  sentiment  and  expression,  a  truthfulness  and  vividness 
of  illustration  that  constitutes  the  very  soul  and  essence  of  poetry,  a  few  ex- 
amples of  which  I  will  here  present.  From  his  sketch  entitled  "The  Wife," 
we  have  the  following:  "As  the  vine  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foli- 
age about  the  oak  and  been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will,  when  the  hardy 
plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling  round  it  with  its  caressing  tenda-ils 
and  bind  up  its  sliattered  boughs,  so  is  it  beautifully  ordered  by  ,  Providence 
that  woman,  who  is  the  mere  dependent  and  ornament  of  man  in  his  happier 
hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when  smitten  by  sudden  calamity;  wind- 
ing herself  into  the  rugged  recesses  of  his  nature,  tenderly  supporting  his 
drooping  head,  and  binding  up  the  broken  heart."  Again  from  the  sketch 
entitled  the  "Broken  Heart:"  "How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim,  how  many 
soft  cheeks  grow  pale,  how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the  tomb,  and 
none  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness !  As  the  dove  will  clasp 
its  wings  to  its  side  and  cover  and  conceal  the  arrow  that  is  preying  upon  its 
vitals,  so  it  is  the  nature  of  woman  to  hide  from  the  world  the  pangs  of 
wounded  affection.  *  *  *  ^^g  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and 
beauty  of  the  grove;  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage,  l»ut  with  the 
worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  withering  when  it  should  be 
most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it  drooping  its  branches  to  the  earth,  and 
shedding  leaf  by  leaf,  until,  Avasted  and  perished  away  it  falls,  even  in  thi' 
stillness  of  the  forest,  and  as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful    ruin    we  strive    in 


I  a  A  BEAUTIFUL 

vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that  could  have   smitten  it  with 
decay." 

It  was  of  this  sketch,  "The  Broken  Heart,"  that  Byron  once  said  he 
"wanted  to  hear  an  American  read  it,"  and  when  an  American  read  it  to  him 
he  melted  into  tears,  remarking,  "You  see  me  weep;  I  have  but  few  tears  for 
this  world,  but  I  always  weep  for  the  broken  heart,  and  I  do  not  believe 
Irving  ever  wrote  that  piece  without  weeping."  The  following  from  his 
"Traits  of  Indian  Character"  is  full  of  poetical  beauty :  "But  if  courage  in- 
trinsically consists  in  the  defiance  of  danger  and  pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is 
a  continual  exhibition  of  it.  *  *  *  As  the  ship  careers  in  fearful  single- 
ness through  the  solitudes  of  ocean ;  as  the  bird  mingles  among  clouds  and 
storms  and  wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck,  across  the  pathless  fields  of  air,  so 
the  Indian  holds  his  course — silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted,  through  the  bound- 
less bosom  of  the  wilderness.  *  *  *  He  gains  his  food  by  the  hardships 
and  dangei's  of  the  chase ;  he  wraps  himself  in  the  spoils  of  the  bear,  the 
panther  and  the  buffalo,  and  sleeps  among  the  thunders  of  the  cataract." 

I  find  so  many  passages  of  exquisite  beauty  and  so  replete  with  poetical 
sentiment  in  perusing  the  writings  of  this  author  that  I  scarcely  know  where 
to  stop.  What  I  have  given,  however,  I  deem  sufficient  to  illustrate  the  idea 
presented  and  to  show  the  character  of  the  composition  which  I  have  thought 
proper  to  denominate  the  poetry  of  prose.  There  is,  however,  one  other  author 
whose  prose  writing  contains  so  much  of  real  poetic  sentiment  and  exquisite 
beauty  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  introducing  to  your  notice  one  quotation. 
The  author  is  the  late  G.  D.  Prentice,  formerly  of  the  Louisville  Journal,  and 
the  extract  is  from  a  piece  of  rare  beauty  of  style  and  language,  which  he 
wrote  many   years   since,   entitled  "The  Thunder   Storm:"     "My  dread   of, 


POETIC  REVIEW.  rf 

thunder  had  its  origin  in  an  incident  that  occurred  when  I  was  a  boy  of  ten 
years.  I  had  a  cousin,  a  girl  of  the  same  age  of  myself,  who  had  been  the 
constant  companion  of  my  childhood.  Strange  that  after  the  lapse  of  so 
many  years  that  countenance  should  be  so  familiar  to  me.  I  can  see  the  bright 
young  creature,  her  eyes  flashing  like  a  beautiful  gem,  her  free  locks  stream 
ing  as  with  joy  upon  the  rising  gale,  her  cheek  glowing  like  a  ruby  through 
transparent  snow.  Her  voice  had  the  melody  and  joyousness  of  a  bird's,  and 
when  she  bounded  over  the  woodland  hill,  or  fresh  green  valley,  shouting  a 
glad  answer  to  every  voice  of  nature,  and  clapping  her  little  hands  in  the  very 
ecstasy  of  young  existence,  she  looked  as  if  breaking  away,  a  free  nightin- 
gale ,  from  earth,  and  going  off  where  all  things  are  beautiful  and  happy  like 
her."  The  whole  piece  is  a  gem  in  prose  composition  of  rare  beauty,  but  this 
must  suflice.  '  "  . 

VII. 

Having  dwelt  sufficiently  upon  what  I  have  denominated  the  poetry  uf 
prose,  I  now  propose  to  call  attention  to  that  style  of  poetical  composition 
called  blank  verse,  which  differs  from  the  poetry  of  prose,  principally,  in  add- 
ing what  may  be  fitly  denominated  an  element  of  form,  viz.,  meter,  giving  to 
each  line  a  certain  number  of  accented  syllables.  Blank  verse,  containing  thus 
one  more  element  of  finished  poetry,  may  be  considered  the  higher  order  of 
composition,  and  therefore  better  adapted  to  the  expression  of  the  grand,  the 
beautiful  and  the  sublime  in  thought  and  action.  It  is  the  style  of  composi- 
tion seldom  or  never  attempted  by  the  tyro  anil  the  uncultivated,  but  belongs 
especially  to  the  cultured  and  the  scholastic.  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost"  and  Pol- 
lock's "Course  of  Time"  are  familiar  and  excellent  examples  of  this  style  of  poeti- 
cal composition,  abounding  in  sublimity  of  thought,  and  beauty  anil  force  of 


i4  A   BEAUTIFUL 

expression — a  few  examples  of  which  I  will  here  give  by  way  of  illustration. 
Eve,  upon  leaving  Paradise,  thus  gives  expression  to  her  grief: 

"  O  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death ! 
Must  I  leave  thee.  Paradise?  thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil,  these  happy  walks  and  shades 
Fit  haunt  of  gods?  where  1  had  hoped  to  spend, 
Quiet  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
»  That  must  be  mortal  to  us  both." 


It  would  seem  that  no  other  style  of  composition  could  so  forcibly  express 
the  deep,  impassioned  grief  of  Eve  on  her  departure  from  Paradise.  The  fol- 
lowing quotation  from  Pollock  will  illustrate  the  descriptive  power  of  this 
style  of  composition: 

"  He  touched  his  harp  and  nations  heard  entranced. 
As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing  source, 
Rapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  numbers  flowed, 
And  opened  new  fountains  in  the  human  heart; 
Where  fancy  halted,  weary  in  its  flight 
In  other  men,  his,  fresh  as  morning  rose, 
And  soared  untrodden  heights,  and  seemed  at  home 
Where  angels  bashful  looked.     Others,  though  great. 
Beneath  their  argument  seemed  struggling  while 
He  from  above  descending  stooped  to  touch 
The  loftiest  thought;  and  proudly  stooped,  as  though 
It  scarce  deserved  his  verse.     With  Nature's  self 
He  seemed  an  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest 
At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty." 

A  more  grand  and  complete  description  could  scarcely  be  given  of  a  great 


POETIC  REVIEW.  15 

poet  than  this.     Another  quotation,  quite  difterent  in  character,  will  show  the 
power  of  this  style  of  composition  for  varied  expression  and  vivid  delineation: 

"'Twas  pitiful  to  see  the  early  flower 
Nipped  by  the  unfeeling  frost,  just  as  it  rose 
Lovely  in  youth  and  put  its  beauties  on." 


This  is  full  of  tender  sympathy  and  exquisite  beauty.     Again: 

"Sad  was  the  sight  of  widowed,  childless  age. 
Weeping.     I  saw  it  once.     Wrinkled  with  time, 
And  hoary  with  the  dust  of  years,  an  old 
And  worthy  man  came  to  his  humble  roof. 
His  lonely  cot  was  silent,  and  he  looked 
As  if  he  could  not  enter.     On  his  staff, 
Bending,  he  leaned,  and  from  his  weary  eye — 
Distressing  sight !  a  single  tear-drop  wept. 
None  followed,  for  the  fount  of  tears  was  dry. 
Alone  and  last,  it  fell  from  wrinkle  down 
To  wrinkle,  till  it  lost  itself:  drunk  by 
The  withered  cheek  on  which  again  no  smile 
Would  come  or  drop  of  tenderness  be  seen." 


It  would,  1  think,  be  difficult  to  conceive  of  a  picture  of  deeper  woe  and  more 
utter  desolation  than  the  one  the  poet  has  here  given.  For  further  illustration 
I  shall  ("luote  briefly  from  the  writings  of  the  late  George  D.  Prentice,  for- 
merly of  the  Louisville  Joiwnal,  who.se  imagination  and  pen  have  given  us 
some  productions  not  excelled  by  any  other  writer  in  the  English  language. 
In  a  poem  of  his,  entitled  "The  Closing  Year,"  we  find  the  following: 


lb  A    BEAUTIFUL 

"  'Tis  midnight's  holy  hour — and  silence  now 
Is  brooding  like  a  gentle  spirit  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark !  On  the  winds 
The  bell's  deep  tones  are  swelling;  'tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year.     No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past,  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  re  st 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud;  the  air  is  stirred 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh;  and  on  yon  cloud 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven. 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand. 
Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn  form 
And  Winter  with  his  aged  locks,  and  breathe 
In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad 
Like  the  far  wind-harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  year 
Gone  from  the  earth  forever.     'Tis  a  time 
For  memory  and  for  tears." 

This  is  replete  with  beauty,  pathos,  and  solemn  sublimity.  Another 
quotation  from  the  same  author,  somewhat  different  in  sentiment,  will  not,  I 
presume,  be  uninteresting.     It  is  from  a  piece  entitled  "The  Stars."     Thus: 

"  Those  burning  stars  I  What  are  they?    I  have  dreamed 
That  they  were  blossoms  on  the  tree  of  life, 
Or  glory  flung  back  from  the  outspread  wings 
Of  God's  archangels — or  that  yon  blue  sky. 
With  all  its  gorgeous  blazonry  of  gems, 
Were  but  a  banner  waving  o'er  the  earth 
From  the  far  wall  of  heaven;   and  I  have  sat 
And  drank  their  gushing  glory  till  I  felt 
Their  flash  electric  trembling  with  deep 


POETIC  REVIEW.  rj 

And  strong  vibrations  down  the  living  wire 

Of  chainless  passion — and  my  very  pulse 

Was  beating  high,  as  if  a  spring  were  there 

To  buoy  me  up  where  I  might  ever  roam 

'Mid  the  unfathomed  vastness  of  the  sky, 

And  dwell  with  those  high  stars,  and  see  their  light 

Poured  down  upon  the  blessed  earth  like  dew 

From  the  bright  wings  of  naiads.". 

This  is  full  of  beautiful  imagery,  touching  pathos,  and  unmeasured  sub- 
limity. It  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  anything  more  beautiful  in  language, 
more  lofty  in  thought.  The  poet's  muse  seems  to  soar  on  outspread  wing 
among  the  distant  stars.  This  I  deem  sufficient  to  illustrate  the  power  and 
adaptability  of  this  style  of  composition  to  the  expression  of  the  beautiful  in 
thought,  action,  and  emotion. 

VIII. 

I  now  pass  to  the  consideration  of  that  style  of  poetical  composition  which, 
in  addition  to  the  poetical  elements  heretofore  considered,  adds  that  of  rhyme, 
which  is  considered  by  many  readers  the  crowning  element  in  poetical  com- 
position. It  does  indeed  give  a  charm  to  poetical  composition  not  otherwise 
attainable ;  but  it  is  only  an  element  of  form,  and  is  to  poetry  what  exquisite 
finish  is  to  statuary — it  rounds  and  softens,  adding  beauty  of  finish  to  grand- 
eur of  outline.  Blank  verse  may  be  said  to  possess  more  rugged  grandeur; 
rhyme  more  finished  beauty.  Perhaps  I  cannot  better  illustrate  the  differ- 
ence than  by  giving  the  following  quotations,  in  the  different  styles  of  compo- 
sition, on  the  same  subject: 

"  Oh,  Winter!  ruler  of  the^in verted  year, 
Thy  scattered  hair  witl\sleet-like  ashes^fill'd, 


iS  A    BEAUTIFUL 


Thy  breath  congeal'd  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 

Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 

Than  those  of  age;  thy  forehead  wrapped  in  clouds, 

A  leafless  branch  thy  scepter,  and  thy  throne 

A  sliding  car  indebted  to  no  wheels 

But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slipp'ry  way — 

I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st, 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art." 


Again: 


"  Gently  as  lilies  shed  their  leaves 
When  Summer's  days  are  fair, 
The  feath'ry  snow  comes  floating  down, 
Like  blossoms  on  the  air; 
And  o'er  the  world  like  angels'  wings, 
Unfolding  soft  and  white, 
It  broods  above  the  brown  sear  earth 
And  fills  with  forms  of  light 
The  dead  and  desolate  domain, 
Where  Winter  holds  his  iron  reign." 

Though  both  styles  of  composition  are  susceptible  of  great  variations, 
yet  the  above  illustration  will  give  a  tolerable  idea  of  the  difference  in  expres- 
sion. And  here  I  would  remark  that  in  the  consideration  of  written  poetry, 
for  the  purpose  of  illustration,  I  have  thought  proper  to  divide  its  elements 
into  two  classes.  The  first  I  would  denominate  the  soul  or  essential  essence; 
the  second,  the  form  and  features,  in  some  instances  only  the  garb  it  wears. 
The  first  comprises  imagination,  ideality,  sublimity,  comparison,  truth,  purity 
and  beauty;  the  second  class  comprises  rhythm  and  meter  in  their  several  varie- 
ties. The  highest  quality  of  all  these  elements  united  constitutes  the  most 
perfect  type  of  poetical  composition.     But  it  is  not  necessary  that  every  speci- 


POETIC  REVIEW.  ig 

men  of  poetry  that  claims  rank  as  genuine  should  contain  all  the  elements 
above-mentioned,  but  sufficient  of  the  first  class  to  constitute  soul  that  is 
easily  recognized,  and  of  the  second  to  give  comeliness  of  form  and  features. 
Indeed  it  is  possible  to  have  the  soul  -without  the  form  and  features,  as,  in  the 
poetry  of  prose ;  but  the  reverse  is  hardly  possible,  for  rhythm  and  meter,  how- 
ever perfect,  without  some  element  of  the  first  class  could  be  little  else  than 
mere  doggerel  or  senseless  jingle.     Genuine  poetry  must  have  soul. 


IX. 


There  is  no  element  in  poetical  composition  so  abused  and  actually  mur- 
dered by  the  ignorant  and  presumptuous  as  the  element  of  rhyme.  Persons 
who  would  not  attempt  to  write  a  sentence  in  plain  prose,  will,  under  the  in- 
spiration of  some  unusual  occasion,  write  what  they  term  poetry,  but  which  i? 
in  reality  the  most  nonsensical  jingle,  coming  about  as  near  the  genuine  arti- 
cle as  the  rattling  of  marbles  in  a  tin  can  comes  to  genuine  music. 

I  very  well  i-emember,  many  years  ago,  when  but  an  idle  boy,  it  was 
customary  for  the  peddlers  of  small  wares  and  Yankee  notions,  to  hawk  about 
the  streets  what  were  called  "ballads,"  a  rhythmical  tletail  of  some  remark- 
able incident,  an  accident  accompanied  with  loss  of  life,  a  murder,  an  execu- 
tion, or  some  incident  with  harrowing  details.  A  couple  of  stanzas  of  one  of 
these  productions  I  still  remember.  It  has  clung  to  my  mcmor}^  through  the 
many  years  that  have  since  gone  by  on  the  wings  of  light  and  shadow.  The 
inspiring  incident  was  as  follows:  A  party  of  young  people,  in  the  buoyancy 
of  youth,  were  out  enjoying  a  sleigh  ride,  when  crossing  a  stieam  the  ice 
gave  way  and  all  wei-e  drowned.     The  stanzas  ran  as  follows: 


20  A    BEAUTIFUL 

"Schoharrie  stream  they  sought  to  cross, 
Not  knowing  they  would  suffer  loss; 
The  ice  gave  way  and  down  they  went, 
And  thus  their  life  and  breath  was  spent. 
Under  the  ice  they  all  did  go. 
Which  caused  their  friends  the  deepest  woe; 
And  several  anxious  days  rolled  round, 
Before  their  bodies  could  be  found. 

The  ballad  continued,  describing  the  funeral,  the  grief  of  the  friends  and 
neighbors,  and  enumerated  the  virtues  of  the  departed,  but  I  will  not  attempt 
to  give  any  more,  as  it  has  so  nearly  faded  from  ray  memory  that  I  could  not 
do  it  justice. 

But  this  class  of  poets  and  this  style  of  poetry  is  so  admirably  taken  off 
in  what  is  known  as  the  "Bedott  Papei-s,"  that  I  am  sure  I  cannot  do  better 
than  quote  from  them  by  way  of  illustration. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Mrs.  Bedott  was  one  of  those  home-made, 
self-constituted  poets  who  feel  inspired  to  write  upon  every  important  inci- 
dent that  happens  in  the  family  or  neighborhood.  It  is  generally  occasions 
of  grief  or  misfortune  that  stirs  up  the  muse  of  this  class  of  poets.  Thus,  on 
the  death  of  neighbor  Bennett,  Mrs.  Bedott  wrote  the  following  "  consolin' 
varses  to  his  afflicted  widder." 

"  O  Gandefield, 

Where  is  thy  shield 
To  guard  against  grim  death  ? 

He  aims  his  gun 

At  old  and  young, 
And  fires  away  their  breath. 


POETIC  REVIEW. 

"  One  summer's  day 

For  to  tend  to  his  hay 
Mr.  Bennett  went  to  the  medder, 

Fell  down  from  the  stack, 

Broke  the  spine  of  his  back, 
And  left  a  mournin'  widder. 

'  'Twas  occasioned  by  his  landin' 
On  a  jug  that  was  standin' 

Alongside  of  the  stack  of  hay. 
Some  folks  say  'twas  what  was  in  it 
Caused  the  fall  of  Mr.  Bennett, 

But  there  aint  a  word  of  truth  in  what  they  say. 


On  another  occasion,  hearing  that  Elder  Sniffles,  a  lone  widower  to  whom 
she  was  becoming  very  partial,  was  sick,  she  writes  as  follows  by  way  of  con- 
solation : 

"  O  Reverend  Sir,  I  do  declare, 
It  drives  me  al'most  to  frenzy 
To  think  o'  you  a  lyin'  there 
Down  sick  with  influenzy. 


"  O,  I  could  to  your  bedside  fly 
And  wipe  your  weepin'  eyes. 
And  try  my  best  to  cure  you  up. 
If  it  wouldn't  create  surprise." 


But  Elder  Sniffles  recovered,  and  the  old  lady's  interest  in  him  increased 
so  iinich  that  'twas  love,  and  not  sympathy  that  inspired  her  muse  when  she 
wrote  as  follows  : 


22  A   BEAUTIFUL 

"  Ere  love  had  teached  my  tears  to  flow 
I  was  oncommon  cheerful, 
But  now  such  misery  I  do  know, 
I'm  always  sad  and  fearful. 

"  Full  forty  dollars  would  I  give 
If  we  had  continered  apart, 
For  though  he's  made  my  sperit  live. 
He's  surely  bust  my  heart." 

But  fortunately  for  the  lovers  of  poetry  the  old  lady  did  not  die  of  a 
"busted  heart,"  but  lived  to  become  a  happy,  blushing  bride,  and  in  the  exu 
berance  of  her  joy  to  enrich  the  world  of  literature  with  the  following  from 
her  gifted  pen,  addressed  to  her  "  fortinit "  husband,  Shadrack  : 

'"O,  Shadrack,  my  Shadrack  1'  Priscilla  did  speak. 
While  the  rosy  red  blushes  surmantled  her  cheek. 
And  the  tears  of  affection  bedazzled  her  eye, 
'  O,  Shadrack,  my  Shadrack  !   I'm  yourn  till  I  die. 
The  heart  that  was  scornful  and  cold  as  a  stun 
Has  surrendered  at  last  to  the  fortinit  one. 
Farewell  to  the  miseries  and  griefs  I've  had, 
I'll  never  desert  thee,  O  Shadrack,  my  Shad  !'  " 

After  enjoying  the  sweets  of  second-hand  matrimony  for  a  -season,  with 
the  fire  of  inspiration  still  burning  brightly  in  her  loyal  "  buzum,"  and  her 
muse  yet  poised  on  half-closed  wings,  she  gives  vent  to  the  following  : 

"  Blest  be  the  day  of  sacred  mirth 
That  gave  my  dear  companion  birth  ;     • 
Let  men  rejoice  while  Silly  sings 
The  bliss  her  precious  Shadrack  brings." 


POETIC  REVIEW.  sj 

X. 

There  is  yet  another  variety  of  this  class  of  poetry  to  which  I  wish  to 
call  attention  that  is  not  inaptly  sometimes  called  "  graveyard  poetry,"  from 
the  fact  that  it  is  generally  found  on  tombstones.  It  is  generally  the  effusion 
of  some  affectionate,  friend  who,  inspired  by  the  occasion,  gives  expression  to 
some  tender  sentiment  or  commemorates  some  virtue  possessed  by  the  dear  one 
now  resting  quietly  beneath  the  daisies  ;  or  perhaps  personates  that  dear  one, 
leaving  some  w^ords  of  advice  or  consolation  to  the  dear  bereaved  ones  left  be- 
hind, as  the  following: 

"  Fond  parents  weep  for  me  no  more 
That  I  no  more  am  given; 
We'll  surely  meet  when  life  is  o'er, 
High  up  above  in  heaven." 

Or  it  may  be  an  ante-mortem  production  of  the  one  whose  virtues  and 
tribulations  it  commemorates,  as  the  following  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Bedott. 
When  her  matters  with  the  elder  w^ere  in  rather  a  doubtful  state,  and  her 
mind  harrowed  by  the  torments  of  uncertainty,  and  feeling  sure  that  she 
could  not  long  survive  the  withering,  blighting  effect  of  disappointment,  and 
that  she  might  have  everything  in  readiness,  she  wrote  the  following  for  her 
tombstone : 

"  Here  sleeps  I'riscilly  P.  Bedott, 

Late  relic  of  Hezekicr; 
How  melancholy  was  her  lot ! 

How  soon  she  did  expire  ! 
She  didn't  commit  self-suicide, 
'Twas  tribbilation  killed  her; 
O,  what  a  pity  she  hadn't  a-died, 
Afore  she  met  the  elder." 


24^  A  BEAUTIFUL 

Or  it  may  be  a  simple  statement  as  to  whom  the  deceased  was,  and  what 
happened  to  him,  and  always,  of  course,  in  rhyme,  as  the  following: 

"  Here  lies  John  Shaw, 
Attorney-at-law; 
When  he  died 
The  devil  cried, 
'Give  us  your  paw, 
John  Shaw,  attorney-at-law.'  " 


This  is  sufficient  for  illustration.  I  have  dwelt  somewhat  upon  this  kind 
of  poetry  because  there  is  so  much  of  it  afloat — mere  trash — no  more  like  the 
genuine  article  than  the  ragged  cast-off  garments  of  a  man  stuffed  with  straw 
and  surmounted  by  a  pasteboard  mask  or  a  carved  pumpkin  is  like  the  real 
living,  breathing  man, 

XI. 

I  wish  now  to  call  attention  to  that  kind  of  poetical  composition,  each 
specimen  of  which,  possessing  more  or  less  of  the  genuine  elements  of  poetry, 
in  a  fair  degree  of  perfection,  is  entitled  to  rank  as  the  genuine  article.  I  have 
heretofore  remarked  that  every  specimen  of  genuine  poetry  need  not  neces- 
sarily contain  all  the  elements  I  have  enumerated,  but  sufficient  of  the  first 
class  to  give  soul,  and  of  the  second  class  to  give  comeliness  of  form  and 
features.     For  example,  Longfellow's  "Psalm  of  Life:" 

"Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers. 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream; 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 


POETIC  REVIEW. 


'3 


"Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest, 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 

Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul." 

Here  we  have  but  a  shadow  of  ideality,  combined  with  a  pure  and  lofty 
sentiment,  and  with  sublime  truth  beautifull}'  and  forcibly  spoken.  Tlie 
rhythm  and  meter  are  perfect,  each  word  seeming  to  drop  gently  into  its  place 
without  study  or  effort — no  transposition  or  distortion  to  produce  measure  or 
meter,  but  an  easy  flow  of  language  like  the  musical  murmur  of  a  gentle 
stream.  The  following  also  from  the  pen  of  our  own  revered  Bryant,  as  plain 
descriptive  poetry  is  equally  perfect  and  beautiful  in  its  way : 

"Chained  in  the  market-place  he  stood, 

A  man  of  giant  frame, 
Amid  the  gathering  multitude, 
That  shrunk  to  hear  his  name. 

"All  stern  of  look  and  strong  of  limb. 

His  dark  eye  on  the  ground, 
And  silently  they  gazed  on  him 
As  on  a  lion  bound," 

Here,  as  in  the  former  example,  there  is  no  apparent  effort  to  produce 
rhyme  or  meter,  and  yet  each  is  perfect,  presenting  the  subject  in  a  manner 
clear  and  forcible,  and  in  language  plain,  yet  beautiful. 

Equal  in  meter  and  rhyme,  but  superior  in  the  higher  elements,  is  the 
following  from  the  immortal  Burns,  occurring  in  his  inimitable  poem,  "Tam 
O'Shanter": 


26  A  BEAUTIFUL 

"Pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed; 
Or  like  the  snowflake  on  the  river, 
A  moment  white,  then  gone  forever. 

"Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flits  ere  you  can  point  the  place; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form, 
Evanishing  amidst  the  storm." 

Here  we  have  beauty  of  language,  ideality,  sublimity  of  thought  illus- 
trated by  truthful  comparison.  Any  one  who  has  pluclied  a  full-blown  poppy, 
and  with  regret  seen  its  bright  petals  fall  ere  he  had  severed  it  from  the 
parent  stem,  or  stood  on  the  bank  of  a  smoothly  gliding  stream  and  watched 
the  feathery  snowflakes  as  they  fell  lightly  on  its  dark  bosom,  or  watched  the 
constant  and  rapid  changes  of  the  aurora  borealis,  or  the  sudden  disappear- 
ance of  the  rainbow,  will  be  convinced  of  the  beauty  and  truth  of  the  poet's 
illustrations. 

Also  the  following  from  the  pen  of  our  revered  Bryant,  as  he  gazes  upon 
the  frail  form  and  wan,  wasted  features  of  a  dying  girl — a  victim  of  consump- 
tion: 

"Death  should  come 
Gently  and  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 

As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom 
Detach  the  delicate  blossoms  from  the  tree." 

This  is  full  of  beauty,  ideality  touching  pathos,  exquisite  tenderness, 
and  truthful  illustration.  Any  one  who  has  walked  among  blooming  trees  and 
seen  their  delicate  blossoms  showered  down  by  the  gently  passing  breeze,  will 
appreciate  the  truth,  beauty  and  appropriateness  of  the  poet's  illustration. 


POE  TIC  RE  VIE  W.  27 

And  again,  from  the  gifted  pen  of  Miss  Landon,  on  the  same  subject,  we 

have  the  following: 

"Day  by  day, 
The  gentle  creature  died  away, 
As  parts  the  odor  from  the  rose — 
As  fades  the  sky  at  twilight's  close — 
She  passed,  so  tender  and  so  fair." 

"We  can  scarcely  conceive  of  anything  in  language  more  exquisitely  beau- 
tiful and  highly  figurative. 

XII. 

In  the  above  quotations  we  have  examples  of  what  I  regard  as  the  high- 
est type  of  poetry,  possessing  all  the  essential  elements.  This  type  and  style 
of  poetry  may  be  said  to  bear  the  same  relation  to  plain  prose  that  the  artistic- 
ally finished  painting,  with  all  of  its  beauty  of  coloring  and  minuteness  of 
detail,  does  to  the  plain  pencil  sketch. 

There  is  perhaps  no  better  illustration  of  this  than  we  find  in  the  familiar 
piece,  from  the  pen  of  Byron,  entitled  "The  Destruction  of  Sennecharib." 

Sennecharib,  King  of  Assyria,  having  ravaged  portions  of  Judea  and  laid 
waste  many  of  her  large  cities,  determined  upon  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem, 
the  great  and  beautiful  city  of  Judea.  To  this  end  he  encompassed  it  with  a 
mighty  army.  Hezekiah,  king  of  Judea,  feeling  unable  to  resist  so  formida- 
ble an  enemy,  and  being  greatly  in  fear  that  the  city  would  be  destroyed,  ap- 
pealed earnestly  to  the  God  of  Israel  for  divine  guidance  and  protection.  TJie 
Lord  of  Hosts  answered  him  through  the  mouth  of  his  prophet,  Ho.sea,  saying, 
"The  Assyrian  shall  not  injure  the  chosen  city,  nor  enter  its  gates;  he  shall 
not  build  a  bank  against  it  nor  even  shoot  an  arrow  into  it,  but  shall  return 
the  way  he  came  to  his  own  country."     And  so  it  came  to  pass,  for  185,000  of 


28 


A   BEAUTIFUL 


his  army  perished  in  one  night.     After  which  Sennecharib,  gathering  together 
the  remnant,  returned  the  way  he  came,  as  the  prophet  had  foretold. 

This  is  the  plain  statement  of  history,  which  we  will  now  compare  with 
the  poetical  description  as  given  by  Byron,  that  prince  of  poets: 

"The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  with  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  deep  waves  roll  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

"Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 

* 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen; 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strewn. 

"For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleeper  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  were  still. 

"And  there  lay  the  steed,  with  his  nostrils  all  v/ide, 
But  through  them  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride, 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf. 
And  cold  as  the  spray  on  the  rock-beaten  surf. 

"And  there  lay  the  rider,  distorted  and  pale. 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

"And  the  widows  of  Asher  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord." 


POETIC  REVIEW.  29 

What  could  more  forcibly  illustrate  the  cruel  rapacity  of  a  conqueror  who 
seeks  only  conquest  and  rapine,  than  a  wolf,  gaunt  with  hunger,  with  jaws 
distended  and  eyes  gleaming  with  the  iire  of  cruelty,  descending  upon  the 
helpless  fold,  thirsty  for  the  blood  of  its  victims?  But  let  us  contemplate 
briefly  the  picture  which  the  poet  has  spread  out  before  us.  In  imagination 
we  stand  upon  the  walls  of  Jerusalem,  and  what  do  we  behold  ?  A  mighty 
host;  an  army  with  banners,  chariots  and  horsemen,  extending  in  every  direc- 
tion as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach ;  and,  as  the  sun  sinks  to  the  horizon,  his  last 
rays  are  glinted  back  by  spear  and  helmet,  by  saber  and  shield  and  battle-axe. 
What  could  more  fitly  represent  the  almost  countless  host  than  "  the 
leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green,"  and  what  more  vividly  represent 
the  miraculous  change  in  this  mighty  host,  which  the  morrow's  sun  revealed, 
than  "the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown" — the  faded 
and  withered  leaves  of  the  forest  when  the  blighting  frost  and  the  fierce  winds 
of  autumn  have  sent  them  dry  and  withered  to  the  ground?  Where  a  few 
.short  hours  before  was  the  stir  and  bustle  of  a  mighty  army  .settling  down  to 
rest,  now  reigns  the  stillness  and  desolation  of  death — 

"The  tents  are  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown." 

And  what,  we  are  led  to  ask,  has  produced  this  mighty  change  ? 

"The  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  the  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  were  still." 

What  more  striking  illustration  of  the  eft'ect  of  a  great  pestilence  or  the 


30 


A    BEAUTIFUL 


fatal  simoon  of  the  desert,  could  be  drawn  than  that  which  the  poet  has  here 
given — Death  spreading  his  dark  wings  over  the  sleeping  host  and  breathing 
his  withering  breath  in  the  face  of  each  sleeper  as  he  passed? 

But  let  us  draw  nearer  and  examine  the  details  of  this  terrible  picture. 
We  behold  steeds  and  riders  lying  everywhere  intermingled  in  dire  confusion, 
and  all  in  the  profound  stillness  of  death — 

"The  steed  with  his  nostrils  all  wide, 
But  through  them  rolls  not  the  breath  of  his  pride; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lies  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

"And  there  lies  the  rider,  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail. " 

Any  one  who  has  stood  upon  a  battle-field  in  the  cold  gray  dawn  of  a 
morning  succeeding  a  great  battle  must  recognize  the  truthfulness  of  the  pic- 
ture which  the  poet  has  iiere  drawn — a  most  terrible  picture  of  a  most  re- 
markable event,  which  I  believe  has  no  parallel  in  history.  185,000  men 
stretched  upon  the  plain,  wrapped  in  that  sleep  that  knows  no  waking,  is  a 
scene  of  which  we  can  have  no  adequate  conception — 

"The  might  of  the  Gentile  unsmote  by  the  sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord." 

XIII. 

There  are  instances  in  which  poetry  seems  the  result  of  supernatural 
inspiration;  when  a  power  not  of  earth  seems  to  direct  the  poet's  thought?  and 
indite  his  words.     There  is  perhaps  no  better  illustration  of  this  than   that 


POETIC  REVIEW.  31 

wonderfully  popular  production  entitled  "Drake's  American  Flag."  The  flag 
itself  I  have  always  regarded  as  a  thing  of  sublime  inspiration,  and  the  poet's 
conception  of  its  production  is  not  equaled,  I  think,  in  the  English  language, 
one  verse  of  which  is  as  follows  : 


"  When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  her  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes, 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down. 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land." 


The  poet's  muse  here  seems  not  to  toil  laboriously  up,  or  to  poise  on  half- 
closed  wings,  but  to  spring  like  an  eagle  from  his  mountain  crag  and  soar 
away  exultingly  on  strong  and  full-spread  pinions. 

What  more  fitting  source  of  the  colors  of  our  glorious  flag,  and  the  stars 
that  deck  its  azure  field  like  blossoms  of  light,  than  the  heavens.  And  what 
more  appropriate  emblem  of  free,  proud,  happy,  enterprising  America  than 
the  clear-sighted,  strong,  swift- winged  eagle — the  bird  of  Jove,  "  Who  can 
stem  the  fury  of  the  northern  blast  and  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thuntler's 
home" — who  is  alike  at  home  in  the  torrid  or  the  frigid  zone,  on  tlie  mount- 
ain or  in  the  valley,  wherever  the  Stars  and  Stripes  float  over  American  soilf 


?2  A    BEAUTIFUL 

There  are  instances  when  the  poetic  mind  seems  to  draw  superhuman 
inspiration  from  the  times,  the  occasion  and  surrounding  circumstances  com- 
bined— when  the  muse  seems  endowed  with  eagle's  wings,  the  far-seeing- 
vision  of  the  inspired  prophet  inditing  truth  and  prophecy  in  "  thoughts 
that  breathe  and  words  that  burn." 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  better  illustration  of  this  than  that  grand  and 
beautiful  effusion,  by  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  the  "Battle  Hymn  of  the 
Republic." 

It  is  said  that  Mrs.  Howe  had  been,  for  some  time  during  the  first  year 
of  the  Rebellion,  desirous  of  producing  something  from  her  pen  appropriate 
to  the  times  and  the  occasion,  that  could  be  sung  to  the  soul-stirring  music  of 
"John  Brown." 

On  one  occasion,  while  the  national  Capitol  was  encircled  with  armies, 
and  the  whole  city  was  one  grand  military  encampment,  where  the  sound  of 
martial  music  and  the  measured  tramp  of  soldiers  could  be  heard  on  every 
side,  she  was  invited  by  a  military  friend  to  visit  the  encampments  around  the 
city,  and  witness  the  preparations  for  defence,  the  drill  and  parade  of  "the 
boys  in  blue."  She  gladly  accepted  the  invitation,  and  with  a  heart  swelling 
with  patriot  emotions,  looked  upon  the  serried  ranks,  the  "  rows  of  burnished 
steel;"  witnessed  the  various  evolutions  and  the  drill,  by  which  fathers,  sons 
and  brothers  were  being  prepared  for  the  momentous  .struggle  in  which  they 
were  soon  to  engage. 

Remaining  till  after  dark,  she  saw,  with  a  swelling  soul,  the  "watch-fires 
of  a  hundred  circling  camps,"  and  she  saw,  too,  the  incense  ascending  from 
the  altars  built  to  Jehovah  "  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps,"   and  as  she 


POETIC  REVIEW.  33 

passed  regiment  after  regiment,  and  heard,  with  emotions  too  deep  for  utter- 
ance, the  inspiring  music  of  "John  Brown"  swelling  up  from  thousands  of 
patriotic  throats,  she  felt  justly  proud  of  her  great  country  and  its  noble 
defenders.  Returned  to  her  home,  her  heart  thrilling  with  that  noble  Christ- 
ian patriotism  that  filled  the  breasts  of  so  many  of  our  noble  American 
matrons,  manifesting  itself  in  their  lives  and  deeds,  she  felt  more  than  ever 
desirous  of  accomplishing  the  task  she  had  contemplated.  That  night,  when 
she  repaired  to  her  couch  it  was  not  to  sleep.  The  incidents  and  scenes  of 
the  day  were  constantly  before  her  mind. 

The  great  wrong  and  injustice  of  human  slavery,  and  the  wrath  of  a 
just  God  that  must,  sooner  or  later,  be  visited  upon  its  advocates  and  sup- 
porter.s,  were  constantly  in  her  thoughts,  till  she  finally  arose  and  wrote,  as 
by  inspiration,  nearly  as  we  now  have  it,  the  following  sublime  effusion : 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord; 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  faithful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift  sword; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  de%vs  and  damps; 
I  can  see  His  righteous  sentence  in  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps; 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  rows  of  burnished  steel: 
As  ye  deal  wi'h  my  contemners,  so  my  grace  with  you  shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel. 
Since  God  is  marching  on. 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment  scat. 


J4  A   BEAUTIFUL 

OI  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant,  my  feet; 
Our  God  is  marchinj^  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me; 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

For  grandeur  of  thought,  sublimity  of  conception,  keenness  of  prophetic 
vision,  beauty  and  purity  of  language — in  short,  all  that  is  necessary  to  con- 
stitute genuine  poetry,  it  is  not  excelled  by  anything  in  the  English  language. 

It  is  one  of  those  rare  poetic  gems,  which,  like  "The  Star  Spangled  Ban- 
ner, "Hail  Columbia,"  "America,"  and  a  few  others,  are  sure  to  shine  in  the 
diadem  of  the  patriotic  literature  of  America  while  she  holds  her  place  among 
the  nations  of  the  earth,  or  her  sons  and  daughters  retain  a  spark  of  that 
noble  patriotism  which  is  their  just  inheritance. 

XIV. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  here  remark  it  has  been  my  aim  to  give  express- 
ion to  my  ideas — crude  though  they  may  be — of  the  essential  elements  of 
poetry,  its  nature  and  office,  and  to  show  by  contrast  the  difference  between 
genuine  poetry  and  mere  jingle  or  doggerel,  the  latter  being  mere  nonsense 
or  rhyme  run  mad,  while  the  former,  whether  in  the  form  of  prose,  blank  verse 
or  rhyme,  is  always  replete  with  purity  of  thought,  beauty  of  language,  and 
sublimity  of  ideas,  well  calculated  to  arouse  the  nobler  and  more  refined  senti- 
ments of  man's  nature. 

In  all  ages  and  in  all  countries,  poetry  has  nerved  the  soldier's  arm  to 
strike  for  truth  and  the  right,  and  commemorated  his  deeds  of  valor;  it  has 


POETIC  REVIEW.  35 

stimulated  the  patriot's  zeal,  the   scholar's  enthusiasm,  and   brightened  the 
Christian's  hopes. 

The  poetry  of  a  people  has  in  all  ages  marked  their  degree  of  civilization 
and  refinement ;  and  it  has  been  truthfully  said,  he  who  writes  the  songs  of  a 
nation  wields  a  controlling  influence  over  its  destiny.  It  is  the  language  in 
which  the  heart's  deepest,  tenderest  emotions  are  expressed,  and  by  which  its 
inmost  fountains  are  stiiTed. 

In  giving  expression  to  these  crude  thoughts,  I  have  hoped  to  show^ 
somewhat,  the  importance  of  cultivating  in  the  minds  of  the  young  a  taste 
for  the  study  of  high-toned,  genuine  poetry  for  its  elevating  and  refining  in- 
fluence. If  I  have  succeeded  in  the  smallest  degree,  I  shall  feel  amply  paid 
for  the  labor  and  thought  I  have  expended. 


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